


the faster we run, the closer the gun

by mwildsides



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dirty Talk, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sam's POV, Showers, after ep 2, and reference to various and past sex acts, implied bottom sam but honestly they switch, long live sam winchester's chest hair, mention of both john and mary finding out, mention of underage, season 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 23:02:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10055855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mwildsides/pseuds/mwildsides
Summary: He’s a collection of aches.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this got out of hand it was just supposed to be h/c and sam telling dean they can't go off dying anymore and well now you have this. title is adapted from an avenged sevenfold lyric from "angels"

Sam is fucking old. 

 

Young in years, maybe, but his body is so battered he feels ancient, like some artifact kept under glass that curators wear gloves to touch elsewise it’ll go up in a cloud of dust. But god, he hurts all over, his hands the most, generally, but right now his right foot is still sore, same with the bones in his face, his ribs that Castiel had mended. 

 

He’s a collection of aches. 

 

At his side, Dean takes most of Sam’s weight when he unfolds, awkward and painful, out of the backseat of the Impala, because no way was he making  _ his mother _ sit back there. 

 

_ Mom?  _

 

_ Yeah. _

 

Sam is pretty sure he stared at the back of her head the whole drive back to the bunker, stops and all. They talk, too, of course, even though unlike every other instance in his life, Sam can’t think of things to say. It’s his mom. What can he say? Luckily, there’s Dean. 

 

God, is there Dean. 

 

Gloriously still alive, helping Sam limp off to the locker-room-like bathroom a few doors down from their bedrooms. He’d told mom pretty simply they needed to go get cleaned up, because near a week chained up in some cellar with nothing but that nice cold water shower on the first day left Sam more than rank. Even the car ride had been a...test. 

 

Dean sets him down on one of the old wooden benches while he turns on the shower in one stall, and the time it takes them both to get undressed is enough to let the water heat up. The Men of Letters had mastered all kinds of monster trapping or killing technology, but hadn’t really gotten the hang of water heaters. Pressure is good though. 

 

“Alright, Sammy, up you go,” Dean grunts as he hauls Sam’s arm around his shoulder, and helps his brother to his feet. 

 

Sam would protest if he weren’t so tired, so thinly drawn. Whatever serum that British bitch had given him was working its way out of his system, and that was neither pleasant nor easy, so all in all, Sam felt like a sack of shit. Luke-warm death. 

 

The water helps. Dean helps. 

 

“You good?” He asks his big brother, when they’re pressed together under the stream of water, dirt, days-old blood, and stale sweat sluicing off of his skin already. Some of it’s caked on, like his shoulder, so the water just softens the scabbed-up blood and trails brown rivulets down his arm. 

 

Dean scoffs at the question, and gets the shampoo bottle in his hands. “I’m fine. You? How’s your foot?” He doesn’t need to ask it, because again, Cas had taken care of all the flesh wounds, but. Habit, Sam guesses. 

 

“Fine,” he sighs, eyes tracking over Dean’s face and the cut over his eyebrow. Dean rubs his hands over his hair to disperse the shampoo, quick, then grabs the bottle again and fills his palm with the sweet-smelling soap. 

 

It makes Sam feel like a kid again to feel Dean scrubbing the dirt off of him, clinical at first, but then his hands go careful and a little soft when Sam’s eyes drift closed. He’s so damn tired, but god it’s good to feel Dean, good to have him close. Better than that, but Sam doesn’t really have the words, does he. How do you describe how you feel after thinking the love of your life--who is also your big brother--was dead, and then getting the ever loving shit kicked out of you for a few days on end? 

 

Relief is one thing. 

 

Dean’s fingers dig into the meat of Sam’s left shoulders, scraping away the dried blood but working out the knots in the muscle too, and Sam groans. 

 

“God, Dean,” he sighs, and it’s honestly not sexual, not yet, it just feels  _ great.  _ Sam could cry. 

 

“Turn around,” is Dean’s answer, and his hands skim sudsy and slippery over Sam’s chest when he turns into the spray to rinse. The soap runs grey and bubbly into the drain at their feet. 

 

Then Dean’s hands are in his  _ hair,  _ and Sam is pretty sure his legs turn to butter, melting in the hot water. He tips his head back into Dean’s hands, strong and sure where they work the soap into Sam’s scalp, and okay, maybe Sam’s mouth falls open on another moan, breathy with relief. 

 

“ _ Dean, _ ” Sam says again, thready, and twenty-four hours ago he thought the man at his back was dead. 

 

That honestly fed the big  _ fuck you _ he kept giving to that Woman of Letters, even with the pain, because why did it matter? She couldn’t hurt him more than the devil himself, and neither of those things could match the pain of losing Dean, so. She was honestly small-fry in the big scheme of things, for Sam. Live, die, whatever, sure, kill me. 

 

But Dean’s not dead, he’s very, very alive, all warm with it behind Sam, against his back. 

 

“You okay?” Dean asks, hands slipping, sliding down over Sam’s shoulders now to dig his thumbs in again. Sam grits his teeth and grunts, head falling forward to rinse his hair. 

“Yeah,” he manages through the water sluicing over his face, spits to keep it and the dirty suds out of his mouth. 

 

So Dean goes on, fastidiously working the days-tied-to-a-chair out of Sam’s muscles, knuckles or thumbs rolling against his skin slick with soap. At Sam’s waist, Dean spreads his hands, holds on while he grinds his thumbs into the dimples above Sam’s ass, which makes Sam lurch forward a little, a hand thrown out to catch himself on the tile. 

 

And alright, so maybe  _ now  _ it feels...sensual, but that’s probably just him, Dean is trying to help him feel better. 

 

Sam shudders out another sigh, leans his wet cheek against his bicep because he feels like he’s going to crumple any second now, which isn’t helped when Dean’s fingers slide down the crack of his ass. He opens his mouth to say something, but comes up with nothing, instead lost in the feeling of  _ how  _ Dean’s touching him, affectionate and clinical enough that it doesn’t imply anything. 

 

Still, his fingers drag the soap over Sam’s hole where they stop to press, like he’s teasing, before he’s drawing back up again, pulling away entirely. Sam almost looks over his shoulder to ask what’s wrong, but watches Dean rinse his hands, and reach for more soap. 

 

He goes back to what he was doing, pretty promptly and Sam can’t complain. 

 

Instead he pushes his ass back into Dean’s hands, even though he really couldn’t tolerate getting fucked right now--he’s too tired. It’s nice, though, Dean touching him, washing him there, just barely bordering on sexual. 

 

“Dean,” Sam sighs again, this time it’s a sort of warning, “Dean I can’t, I’m tired I’m -” 

 

For a beat Dean is quiet, and his fingers scrub once more down the crease of Sam’s ass, before he wraps a thick arm around his little brother’s waist to pull them flush together. 

 

Dean’s hard, but somehow Sam still knows he isn’t asking for it right now.

 

“‘S alright, Sammy, I got you, just a little more,” he murmurs, close in and reassuring so that Sam breathes out some tension again. 

 

Dean holds him fast against his body as his hand works in circles, palm flat against Sam’s thigh as he works the suds over his skin, down over and up. His touch goes gentler when he palms Sam’s balls, rolls them once in his hand, then smoothes his hand up the crease of Sam’s thigh. Dean switches hands and does it again, before stroking once, twice, and a third time over Sam’s stiff cock. 

 

“Alright,” says Dean, gentle, as he rinses his hands, and helps Sam do the same before he cuts off the water.

 

After moving into the bunker for good, they’d had to go out and buy towels, something they’d never done in their entire lives. Some were left here, but neither of them dared use one of the threadbare, mothbitten and probably moldy little slips of fabric, even after decades of using shitty motel towels. 

 

It was kind of an indulgence to pick up huge, fluffy towels from the local department store, but so was the knowledge that they  _ could.  _

 

Dean wraps him up in one of those towels now, once he gets Sam sat down on the bench again, which is a relief to his spinning head. Sam sighs and pulls the towel around his shoulders, not really caring that he’s dripping all over the tile floor beneath his feet. Dean wraps another around his own waist, then throws another over Sam’s head, rubbing with quick vigor to dry off his hair.

 

“Thanks,” Sam tells him, tipping his face up to look at Dean where he stands in front of him, glistening pink and gold and green and copper, all slick with his eyelashes clumped together with water. 

 

Sighing, Sam sits a little forward and wraps his arm around Dean’s waist, pressing his cheek against the soft, damp skin of Dean’s belly, the action pulling his brother in close. He holds tight, reveling in the sound of Dean’s body working under Sam’s ear, alive and well and churning, warm with blood, and Sam, as much as he hurts right now, is happy. 

 

They have a home, they’re safe for now. No marks, no Darkness, they’re both alive. Hell,  _ mom  _ is alive. Lucifer may be out there, somewhere, but honestly? Sam doesn’t have the capacity to care right now. 

 

He twists his head, presses his forehead against Dean’s skin, and ignores his brother’s erection where it brushes against his chest. 

 

“Cmon baby boy, lets get you up, alright? I'm gonna go get dinner.”

 

They're 33 and 37 and even now Sam goes all gooey caramel center when Dean calls him that. Something about the endearment makes him feel  _ safe,  _ and especially now reminds him that Dean is there when Sam needs him. He’ll take care of Sam.

 

Wrapped up in Dean’s grey cotton robe, Sam staggers down the hallway with his brother hovering at his side till they reach Dean's room. Dean's, not Sam’s, but honestly he's too tired to care at this point. The bedroom is blessedly dark and smells like Dean, like home, so he trudges in and nearly falls face first on the bed before Dean can pull the covers back. 

 

“Alright, I'll be back in a little while, okay?” Dean says as he flips the covers over Sam’s legs, letting him take it from there. 

 

“Yeah,” Sam murmurs, reaching up a hand, outstretched toward his brother, beckoning like a child who wants another story before bed. Dean frowns and comes within reach, so Sam tugs at his shirt, twisting it around his fist until Dean comes close, throwing out a hand to brace himself on the mattress.

 

Sam meets him halfway, stretching up to kiss his brother sweet and simple on the lips. It's dry and warm, but Sam wasn't spoiling for anything else, just. Wanted a little something before Dean left and he fell asleep for god knows how long.

 

“Alright Sammy.” Sam can taste the words when Dean whispers them, pushes some of Sam’s hair from his face, before moving to turn on the bedside lamp. Falling back on the bed, Sam nods as he watches Dean go, and he's pretty sure he's out before the door closes.

 

-

 

When he sleeps this hard, Sam doesn't dream, and thank god for that. It does surprise him when Dean gets back and his weight dips the bed near Sam’s hips, a hand squeezing his shoulder gently. He sucks in a breath, wild, and his arm comes up as if there's something to block.

 

“Hey, easy, take it easy Sam it's just me,” says Dean with a frown, pushing gently on Sam’s forearm.

 

“Dean.” Sam says it just because he can, because Dean really is alive and here, and oh yeah, they're back at the bunker. Everything is fine-ish.

 

“Sorry,” he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face as he settles back against the pillows. Dean’s hand rests against his ribs now, over Sam’s heart. 

 

“You hungry? Went and got sandwiches. Mom is sitting at the table with Cas, like it’s nothing, you can’t miss it.” Dean’s smile is fond and happy, contagious. 

 

“‘Kay,” Sam mumbles back, sighing heavy just to rouse himself a little more before he sits up next to Dean. 

 

“Sure you’re doin okay?” Dean says, bumping his shoulder into Sam’s, soft like they’re kids again on a hotel bed, and dad is expected home any minute, only--its better. They’ve got a home and no one to wait for except each other. 

 

“Yeah, just feel like I could sleep for a month, yknow? And whatever she dosed me with, it’s just...I don’t know, working its way out of my bloodstream I guess.” He pulls the sides of the robe closed over his still-naked body, and stands, because at very least, he needs pants. 

 

“Well, shove some food in your face, and you can sleep for as long as you like,” Dean tells him with a smile and a pat on the shoulder, “and when I get the chance I’m gonna gut that bitch like a pig.” 

 

Sam smiles back at him. 

 

Dressed in sweats, a tee, and Dean’s robe, Sam shuffles over to the kitchen behind his brother, honestly a little nervous because their  _ mom _ was in there. His mother, a woman he only knew in his mind and angel-made flashes back over thirty years, so yeah, he was slightly anxious, because what could he say to her?  _ I may have had a normal life if-- I’m fucking my big brother, but honestly we’re so twisted and fucked up it’s not the least-- The John Winchester you knew died pretty quick after you did--  _

 

He stuffs all those thoughts down, because they’re making him nauseous, and he needs to eat. 

 

Like Dean said, Mom is sitting next to Cas while they talk, and Sam wonders what his previously dead mother and an angel have to say to one another when they only have one, technically two, things in common. Sam stops in the doorway for a second, watching as his brother goes to join him, and god, Sam hurts everywhere, he’s exhausted, but the sight of the three of them makes him so,  _ so _ happy. 

 

He blinks back tears he hadn’t felt coming when Cas looks up to him and gives him that pressed-lipped smile, a nod that he gives when he greets Sam after something happens. It’s pity, but whatever. Mom looks at him too then, and her eyes stay on his face for the span of a few seconds, then travel elsewhere, assessing what her littlest son had become. 

 

God, if he could tell her, she’d hate him. Wouldn’t look at him in awe like that, certainly. 

 

“Hey,” he breathes as he moves to sit next to Dean, close enough that their arms brush, because he just. Needs to. When shit like this happens, closeness to Dean helps, for lack of a better word. 

 

“Alright, we’ve got an Italian, a club, and roast beef,” Dean says, pulling the remaining sandwiches toward himself and Sam, at which Sam raises his eyebrows, looking at mom and Cas who had already eaten. 

 

“He figured you would be hungry enough for two,” Cas supplies as explanation, looking over at Dean with fond exasperation. 

 

_ (Sam is so far past jealousy at this point that he just...gets it. He’s fine.) _

 

“I’ll just start with the club, thanks,” Sam says with a weak laugh, and takes the footlong from his brother when it’s offered. Dean pushes a fountain soda and a bag of chips his way too, and tucks into his own sandwich. 

 

It’s a little awkward; Sam doesn’t know what to say, but thankfully, the conversation turns to Lucifer--which is something he thought he’d never think. Still, it’s something to speculate on, even if it leads to mom asking questions about when they'd encountered him before. It exhausts Sam more than he expected, so he goes quiet with the excuse of devouring his sandwich, because yeah, he was pretty damn hungry. Dean notices, side-eyeing Sam here and there while he coaxes the subject away from Lucifer. 

 

When both he and Dean are finished, Sam stuffs a few cookies in his mouth, and wishes he could lean over to rest his weight against Dean, lay his head on his brother’s shoulder. Cas knew from the get go, of course, it was kind of unavoidable when an angel tugs you up from hell, both of you at least once, or fits a hand into your soul where you buried the love you had for your brother since you were sixteen. 

 

But mom. Well, she’s their mother. She can’t know, like dad she can never,  _ ever  _ know. 

 

The thought of stepping around her in the bunker, hiding again in a place they’d made their home makes Sam even more tired. He can’t resent his mother for it, it isn’t her fault, but there’s always going to be a lizard-brained part of him that he can’t control when it comes to Dean, can’t control the thoughts or feelings he has. It’s that part he pulls on when something has hurt Dean, and Sam has to kill. 

 

“You guys mind if I turn in?” He asks, wondering if he looks as pathetic as he feels. 

 

“No,” Mom replies with a wan, understanding smile. She rises from her seat when he does, and rounds the table, so that before he knows it she’s embracing him, little arms around his middle. 

 

33 going on 63, and this is the first time his mother has hugged him. That he can remember, he’s sure she held him in those six months after she brought him into this world, but still, he can feel the significance when he wraps his arms around her. All the way, encompassing her, a promise perhaps that he won’t let anything happen again. 

 

It must be a little awkward for Dean and Cas. Sam opens his eyes when mom draws away from him, not realizing they’d been closed in the first place, and glances quick, twitchy, over at Dean, who nods. Like approval? Sam doesn’t know, but he turns his attention to mom again and smiles at her. His lips waver, and yeah, there are tears in his eyes. 

 

“Get some rest, okay?” She says quietly, squeezing his bicep, and god the warmth of it is enough to fill up the years Sam has spent, twisted into a half-demon, impure, an abomination. 

 

Right this second he’s just his mother’s son. A son, and a brother, and a lover. A friend. 

 

“I will.” His voice probably gives him away, so Sam turns, pushing a hand over his face as he leaves the kitchen. 

 

Sam goes back to Dean’s room, because he's  just...feeling needy. Feeling like a kid again, when he just wants to be around Dean, tuck himself up under his brother’s arm and catch a movie. Drift off to Dean’s smell, so Sam switches pillows on the bed, flips one over and when he’s laid out and comfortable, it fills his senses with his brother. 

 

Who he’d like to come to bed, but. Sam gets why he won’t follow too quickly--so starts the sneaking around mom. 

 

Of course when Sam lays down to sleep, he can’t, but feels alright because he’s warm, comfortable, and Dean actually has a book on his nightstand. It’s Sam’s, of course, the Collected Works of Euripides he’d forgotten here a while ago, so he flips it open to Medea. 

 

He doesn’t read for long before the door swings gently open, and Dean slips in, quiet in case Sam is asleep. 

 

“Hey,” he says on an exhale, like he was holding his breath. 

 

Sam shuts his book, sets it on the bedside table, and feels so fucking relieved. “Hey.” 

 

“Thought you’d be asleep,” Dean adds as he pulls off his jacket, his shirt, then sits on the opposite side of the bed to unlace his boots. 

 

“Couldn’t for some reason, so. I figured I’d read and wait up.” He watches the muscles of Dean’s back work subtly as he tugs off his boots and socks, then starts to undo his belt. Sam licks his lips. 

 

“Well, I'm about ready to sleep for a week,” Dean sighs as he stands up to shove his jeans down his legs, leaving his briefs on. 

 

Sam pushes back the covers for him, a threadbare military-esque blanket they'd kept from the spares in a storage room, only because it wasn't too motheaten or musty, and it never too cold in the bunker somehow. Or maybe it was because they were always in bed together, curled around each other and pressed skin shoulder to ankle. Positions may differ. 

 

Tonight when Dean climbs into bed and settles on his back, Sam slides over to cling, head on his brother’s shoulder, a heavy arm around his belly, and a leg between both of his. It's just the kind of warm home comfort Sam needs right now, Dean, the center of his world, alive and breathing, smooth scarred bronze, blood hot. 

 

Sam is tired, but he wants. His body hasn't quite forgotten the wet drag of Dean’s hands on his skin, but the rest of him wants...rest. He wants to fuck Dean and wants to fall asleep with him, lulled by the sound of his steady breathing, he just doesn't know which he wants to do more.

 

Nuzzling his cheek against the meat of Dean’s shoulder, Sam looks up at his big brother. 

 

“You uh...you too tired to fuck real quick?”

 

Dean laughs immediately, eyes dragging open so he can look down at Sam, which, here is the only place he does that anymore, when Sam curls and makes himself small. Or if he's sucking Dean’s dick.

 

“Never too tired for that, Sammy.” All big-brother grin, Dean rolls over onto his side, over Sam, till he’s heavy weight and warm. 

 

Before he kisses Dean, before things get far enough where rational sentences are nil, Sam holds Dean's face in his hands. Presses their foreheads together. 

 

“I'm not doing this anymore Dean.” Raw and shuddery and too full of emotion. He looks up at Dean, sees horror. 

 

“ _ What _ ?” Betrayal too. 

 

“No, not - “ Sam huffs and presses his mouth to the corner of Dean's lips where they hang open in premature shock. “Not  _ this.  _ I meant losing you. Thinking you're dead, I'm over it.” 

 

All the breath in Dean’s lungs leaves him in a flood of relief, his nose brushing Sam’s, love-tender.

 

“Yeah well - “ He's almost heaving his breaths, “same goes. And maybe you should lead with that next time, fuck.” 

 

Sam kisses at Dean’s lips again, placating. “Sorry. Point still stands, I'm done. If the world’s gonna end, the next time, and we’ve done everything we possibly could short of giving our lives--we’re gonna let it.” 

 

The expression on Dean’s face is unreadable nothing, his eyes simply skim Sam’s face.

 

“Sam,” Dean starts softly, letting his head drop so his forehead rests just below Sam’s clavicle. “That's our job.” 

 

“No, it's not Dean. We’re not the only heavy-hitters out there anymore, there are other Men of Letters chapters out there, god knows how many - “

 

“And they didn't give a fuck all the other times when the world was ending!” Dean snaps, and pushes up on his elbows to look down at Sam, eyes a little wild. This isn't where Sam wanted this to go, and so he sighs, head falling to the side in exasperation.

 

Is it so hard to believe he wants to live in a world with Dean in it, or neither of them? There are a lot of reasons for that, some that Sam isn't proud of and that he’ll never tell Dean, but the biggest is just that he loves his brother. That's all and that's what it's always been. 

 

“Maybe if someone saw that the Winchesters weren't willing to put their asses on the line for the six-hundredth time, they'd step up to the plate for their own sake.” 

 

Dean knows Sam is right, and Sam knows Dean isn't the kind of guy to just let the apocalypse go hoping someone else will stop it. 

 

“I'm just tired of - ...I'm tired, Dean. I'm tired of hurting, and I love you, and I just want. God we don't even have to stop hunting, I just - “ 

 

No, those aren't tears in his eyes. He's getting worked up out of nowhere. 

 

“Hey, hey, alright,” Dean murmurs, pressing his palm against Sam’s cheek, thumb rubbing over a cheekbone. “Love you too, baby boy. And I know, I'm…I'm tired too. I know.”

 

He all but pets at Sam, soothes him with his life hardened hands, rough callouses that somehow still feel soft when Dean touches him. It's a good grounding touch, has always kept Sam in the here-and-now, tells him he's safe. 

 

“I don't want…” Sam heaves a sigh at the old popcorn ceiling, not knowing how to make this  _ not  _ sound like a line from a romance novel, “it's just. I've lived lives without you, and it's hollow. So if you go I go, and that's just, how it is?”

 

Dean gives him a fretful look, like he did after he knew Sam just. Wanted to die sometimes.

 

_ So? _

 

“Heaven or hell or purgatory, I'm gonna follow you Dean.”

 

It always makes him nervous when Dean doesn't reply, but he's watching Sam’s eyes again, flicking between them. 

 

“God you're melodramatic,” Dean says with a shit-eating grin, and he drops his head to mouth at Sam’s jaw. 

 

“Jerk.” 

 

“Bitch.”

  
  


What Sam had expected, what he had asked for, was not what Dean gave him and in the best way possible. Instead of a quick fuck, rubbing off against one another, Dean wound it up good, got Sam’s skin flush and friction hot, and plastered his skin with open mouthed kisses or sucking bites. It was undoubtedly going to leave Sam with a dozen or more Dean-shaped bruises on his neck, chest, and stomach, and Sam was perfectly happy with that. Even if mom saw. Sam was proud of them. 

 

Only then, when they're both panting and more than fairly desperate, does Dean start pulling at Sam’s boxers. 

 

“All wet for me,” he says, hoarse against Sam’s neck as Dean cranes his to watch his brother’s stiff cock bounce free when the elastic of his briefs gets tucked up under his balls. 

 

It makes them look as fat and full as they feel, and Sam bites his lip as he looks Dean’s face over. He's always liked seeing Dean’s reactions to him and the things they did. The tip of Dean’s tongue peeks out of those slut-pink lips, pressed to the upper lip like he's dying for a taste. 

 

“Love those big ole nuts’a yours Sammy, god damn. ‘M gonna get my mouth on you next time, drag it out all sloppy and wet like you like.” 

 

“ _ Shit _ Dean,” Sam groans, tipping his hips up as Dean rolls his balls in his hand. It makes precome dribble out the slit of Sam’s cock, and Dean is quick to wipe it up with his fingers. 

 

“Next time,” Dean mumbles it to himself, but Sam likes it too, that kid-brother part of him always elated to hear there  _ will be _ a next time. 

 

Dean readjusts then, so he's hovering over Sam propped up on an elbow as he pulls his dick from his own boxers. He's so thick, and he always gets so fucking flushed for Sam, even gets a little purple at the tip if Sam makes him wait too long. He gets so hurt for it, honestly, and  _ next time  _ Sam thinks. 

 

“Been a little too long,” Dean sighs when he lines them up, lets his weight settle across his hips. 

 

“That happens when you go off to die,” Sam replied quietly, sliding an arm around Dean’s middle, while the other hand comes to grip at the back of his brother’s neck. “Another good reason. We can have sex that much more.” 

 

Dean brushes the first comment off, or maybe he just doesn't care because their dicks are touching--Sam doesn't know. He does huff some sort of laugh just before he ducks his head to press his mouth to Sam’s skin again. 

 

“You got me there, kid, you got me. I can't ever get enough of this.” Dean says it to the warm damp of Sam’s neck, rolling his hips for emphasis. Their cocks skip-slide together, pressed hard between their bellies with perfect friction. Sam can feel the coarse hairs of his happy trail tickle the tip of his dick. Part of him wishes Dean was as hairy as he was. 

 

“Stay with me then,” Sam murmurs it almost too quiet for Dean to hear, fingers curling in his brother’s hair gently to hold him close, even though he was very obviously not going anywhere. 

 

Sam always felt like he was on the verge of losing Dean anyway. 

 

“I'm right here.” Dean withdraws enough enough to look down into Sam’s face. “Huh? You feel me here?” 

 

He weasels a hand between them, not like he needs to, and circles his fingers around the heads of their cocks, squeezing, pressing them slippery together. Sam’s lip catches between his teeth.

 

“Yeah,” he moans, lets his eyes catch on Dean’s. That kind of gesture had always felt too raw, too intimate for both of them, too real, but it's happened enough now that Sam can stomach it. Makes him giddy, even, and he rolls his tongue over his lips, stretches up briefly to lick at Dean’s top lip. 

 

That earns him a soft little laugh, and he gets licked in return, playful. 

 

Sam is never not grateful for the fact that he can smile, that he and Dean laugh their way through sex sometimes. Those are some of Sam’s favorite memories.

 

Dean’s hand slides down over them both, tight, good pressure and slick from their precome, just as he dips his head to fuck his tongue into Sam’s mouth. Deep but not sloppy, purposeful strokes, and Sam moans into it, arches and tugs at Dean’s hair because  _ god  _ that’s how he loves to be kissed. He’s always wanted Dean deep in every way possible, physical, emotional, impossible, Sam wanted inside. Wanted to crawl between Dean’s ribs, nudge his face up between the bones and organs like a dog nosing around in a blanket, and plant himself there, set up roots so far down that neither Sam nor Dean nor anyone else looking in could ever tell they were two people. 

 

There’s stuff in history books about people being one soul in two bodies. Bury my bones with his, mingle our ashes. 

 

Sam can’t put his finger on where it’s from, but he knows that kind of togetherness is possible. They may already have books written about them, but God-- _ Chuck _ \--left out the most important plot line, the one that only high school girls writing musicals, apparently, were capable of imagining. That was what Sam truly wanted written about him, if those books were one day going to become “The Winchester Gospel”: that he gave everything, did everything, for Dean. 

 

That was  _ Sam’s  _ gospel, this imperfect, golden freckled thing under his hands, brother, soulmate, heart. 

 

“You’re thinking too hard,” Dean says, breaks Sam from his reverie because he knows Sam goes away like that sometimes, and it makes what they were working toward near impossible. Sam will go away and the pleasure will spin out as he thinks about it, waxes poetic to his own consciousness while Dean tries to get them off. 

 

“Sorry,” Sam sighs, and returns himself to the here and now. Where else would he rather be? 

 

Dean plants his other elbow next to Sam’s head so they’re nearly nose to nose, and all his weight bears down through his hips. Their cocks press between their bellies, impossibly tight, soft-hard all at once. Dean runs a finger along Sam’s hairline and pushes some of it, even though it’s shorter now, away from his temple. 

 

“What are you thinking about?” 

 

He doesn’t ask that often, and Sam thinks he knows why Dean’s choosing to do it now. 

 

Sam offers up his hips, playing at resistance to Dean’s pinning weight, but really it just creates a slide they both need. Dean sighs, his eyelids flutter, pretty. 

 

“How history looks at people like us.” It sounds like an admission mostly because Dean sort of hates when Sam talks about stuff like this. 

 

“Christ, Sam, I thought you said  _ quick.” _

 

Dean makes it hard to answer for a few beats by occupying Sam’s mouth with a kiss. 

 

“You asked,” he replied, voice a little raw, “and you kept slowing things down, what'd you expect?”

 

“People like us,” Dean repeats instead, hips circling, making the head of Sam’s cock dip into his navel, snag and drag, “brother-fuckers you mean?”

 

Sam rolls his eyes because he knows Dean isn't that dense.  _ Dean _ knows Dean isn't that dense, and yet he still plays at it even with Sam.

 

“Soulmates.” 

 

Dean's jaw ticks. He won't tell anyone, won't even say it to say out loud, but he likes this stuff. Likes hearing about their star signs together, about historical and fictional incest, lovers who fought and died for one another, Achilles and Patroclus, the Sacred Band. They both like Greek history for different reasons, and Dean never admits it. 

 

“And?” Dean pumps his hips, a quick hitch followed by another, and Sam sighs, glad that he's going to come like this. It's a good soft build up, warm and tight, flush, all skin and Dean’s breath, close, but when it all comes to a head it's always intense. Pulls the pleasure from Sam’s guts, wrenches it out of him all delicate and beautiful. 

 

As much as he can in his position, Sam shrugs, his fingers traveling idly over the valley of Dean’s spine, the bunched muscle of his thick shoulders. 

 

“Just thought of how Aristotle used to say Alexander the Great and Hephaestion were one soul in two bodies. Seemed relevant.” 

 

Dean considers this, rolls his lips and chews on them and watches Sam’s face as their cocks shift in the tight confines they've made between their bodies. Shudder, and Sam feels the first pang of pleasure like a warning sign for climax and he squirms for more.

 

“You think we share a soul?” And when Dean asks it isn't patronizing or backhanded, isn't apathetic.

 

“I don't know. Not how this universe sees souls, but maybe it's the blood. I don't know.” 

 

This is the kind of thing Dean finds romantic, their fatalism, their love story, how they share blood and traits and probably somewhere family members, but they've shrugged off convention because a brother is all their lives would let them keep. They share everything including half of their DNA, and Sam knows that's where Dean feels it, love buried so atom-deep that no one could ever take it from him.

 

“You're weird,” Dean tells him with a shake of his head, leaning in again to kiss Sam lightly on the mouth. His fingers come up to tease over a nipple, rubbing before he pulls one into a playful pinch. Gets Sam’s chest hair in with it so he arches, good stinging hurt. 

 

“Love you,” murmurs Dean, half-unintelligible because he licks it into Sam’s mouth, but Sam is so well versed in all of their secret languages, he could write a book. Maybe he will, to go along with the Winchester Gospel, an accompaniment that no one gets. 

 

Sam doesn't say it back, just groans, happy, and digs his fingers into the meat of Dean’s ass, while big brother thrusts his hips like he's fucking Sam. That thought makes him moan again, and he should tell Dean how much he misses the feeling, currently, but they just got back on track. 

 

Nosing up under Dean’s jaw, Sam starts to make a mark of his own on tender skin, just above his shirt collar where it's impossible to hide. An old familiar spot like the Trans-Am skeleton in Bobby’s junkyard they used to sneak out to to watch the stars or jerk each other off. Hide from dad, and so Sam worries a spot red-purple bruised that Dean can't hide. All the while Dean works up a good rhythm, firm ridges of his abdomen massaging at Sam’s cock.

 

“Fuck,  _ Dean _ ,” Sam whines, letting his head fall back against the pillow again. He can feel his balls tighten up, snug with Dean’s, and his hole clenches, telltale to Dean if he were inside that Sam was ready.

 

“That's my boy,” Dean whispers, reverent, a smile that Sam can't see through his squeezed eyelids. “give it up for me, baby boy, let me see you. Let me - “ His works break off into a moan, hips stuttering, so Sam brings an open palm down hard on Dean’s asscheek.

 

“Don't fucking - don't stop, ‘m so close, Dean, please.” Licking his lips, he opens his eyes so he doesn't look so pained. 

 

The slide again, back, up, thrust of slick, hard, hot soft, brother, perfect, and Sam lets his mouth fall open. Grasps at Dean’s face with both hands, thumbs on that steel-cut jaw so he can't twist away, has to watch every unflinching second--

 

Tighter build, then perfect, white hot perfect, and Sam shouts, pumps his hips as his cock spurts between them, the hard first jet nearly hitting his chin. It goes lazy then, humming pulse of pleasure that Dean soothes with his hand, squeezing and milking Sam for everything he’s got. That makes Sam twitch and shiver but he loves it, would even let Dean just keep on stroking him until he came again even though that's utter torture.

 

At least it was torture he consented to. He's okay with that kind of torture.

 

Sam sighs, boneless and splayed, awed, tired. 

 

“Could suck you,” he murmurs, which comes out half a moan as he looks up heavy-lidded at his brother. 

 

Dean presses his lips together, very clearly conflicted, and shakes his head as he rears up to straddle Sam’s belly. He watches, reverent, and even so quick after orgasm Sam is aroused by the sight of Dean’s cock, thick and flushed and familiar and sensual, so much so that it brings taste-memory to mind. Filthy and fifteen and loving the way his brother’s come tasted, couldn't ever get enough. He scared Dean sometimes, but mostly just got called an evil little slut (playfully), just before he got his way. Suck Dean down in the school parking lot after track, choke and arch for when Dean slid a hand down his back to push his shorts down around his ass so Dean could play with it. He liked when Sam played sports cause it meant jockstraps. 

 

Sam relaxes, tosses his hands above his head haphazard and lets his mouth fall open, tongue lolling out like a fucking dog. 

 

“Jesus  _ fucking  _ Christ, Sam,” Dean hisses, and yeah the look on his face is so near to breaking. His tell is that he's looks close to tears when he comes, generally, or looks pained. Hurt, his brow furrowed, sometimes his mouth open on a silent cry if Sam is deep fucking him. Then he goes still, silent and completely overwhelmed. 

 

“Cmon Dean, wanna taste you,” Sam says with a quiet earnestness that surprises himself. He rubs a hand up Dean’s thigh as he jacks himself, fist strong and tight every time the head of his cock disappears into it. 

 

“Fuck Sammy, yeah,” he sighs, muscles in his stomach jumping, and he throws a hand out to brace himself against the headboard. The other steadies his cock toward Sam’s open mouth, where the first few ropes of his come land. Pearly and it hits his tongue point blank like one of those water gun target games at a carnival. 

 

Sam groans for Dean, rolls his brothers come over his tongue once and shows Dean, milky and webbed through his mouth with spit. 

 

“Fuck,  _ fuck.”  _ And Dean shifts quick so he can aim the next load at Sam’s tongue again. 

 

It starts to dribble off, but again Dean squeezes his cock in a brutal grip to give Sam everything he's got, for which Sam waits. Mouth open for  _ his _ special kind of communion.  _ His body.  _

 

Dean's come mingles in Sam’s mouth again when he closes it, but he opens it yet again for show, pushing it out toward his lips, wet, thick, bubbly around the edges. It makes Dean swear again, and he rubs the head of his cock over Sam’s lips, and of course he obliges, little brother pouts and lets the comespit drip out from between his lips to get Dean’s cock even wetter. 

 

He shouldn't be doing this, he  _ was  _ tired. 

 

“I'm gonna film you one day,” Dean says, hoarse and deep like when he's been screaming, “show everyone how much you love the taste of big brother’s come.” 

 

Sam hums, hazy happy with sex, and nuzzles at Dean’s cock as if that's enough of an agreement. He had expected a conversation after the sex, for them to curl around one another and sleep for twelve hours--not talk each other hard again.

 

“Shit,” and when Dean sighs this time, it's resigned, sated. He slips a hand into Sam’s hair, pushing it away from his damp forehead before he shifts down the bed enough that he can kiss Sam. 

 

They kiss and kiss and kiss until Sam doesn't know what he tastes like anymore, can't recognize that Dean's come and saliva aren't foreign. Physically it's easy to draw the line between where Sam starts and Dean ends, but everything else? Is hard. And that's exactly how Sam wants it. 

 

That dials it all down, placates Sam and leaves him eager to find a comfortable spot on the bed with Dean and pass into blissful unconsciousness. But Dean is Dean, more fastidiously tidy than Sam has ever seen his brother be, and so he has to pull on his robe and go get a wet rag from down the hall. 

 

Grinning and with his hands behind his head Sam watches as Dean pokes his head out into the nighttime-dim hallway, looking this way and that. 

 

“Coast is clear,” he stage whispers to Sam, then slips into the hallway. 

  
  


By the time Dean is back, Sam has changed his mind.

 

They're going to have to tell mom. There's no two ways about it. Whether she means to or not, she's going to knock on one of their doors in the evening, find them missing only to discover him

In his brother’s room. Like Sam is now, splayed out on the bed like a Playgirl centerfold, lazy and content post-orgasm. It probably smells like that fresh-sweat-sex smell Dean has in here too, Sam just can't tell because he's so damn used to it (likes it so much). 

 

She'll run into Dean with nothing but a rag in his hand, sex hair, a violent looking hickey, and his come-wet dick soaking a dark patch into his boxers. He'd try to pull his beloved robe (that Sam was wearing earlier) over two of those four offenses, and he'd smile in that wan way he has. 

 

It wouldn't be easy to come up with something to say to your mother right after you got done fucking your brother. Still taste his come in your mouth.

 

_ “Hey, I was just -” _ Mom would motion down the hallway to the bathrooms, a towel and toiletry kit nabbed from Target under one arm. 

 

_ “Sure.”  _ Dean’s not good at awkward conversation, so he'd tell mom goodnight and sidestep around her when her eye caught that mouth shaped bruise. 

 

Or

 

Sam is still smiling from Dean’s stage whisper, hands folded behind his head on the pillows as he waits. And mom, looking for Dean for whatever reason, would see his door just slightly ajar, the warm light on and shining out into the hallway all soft and defenseless. She’d knock, but the door is already open, so she’d call out to Dean and peek her head in to see Sam splayed out, content and freshly fucked, all red in the cheeks, with both his and Dean’s come cooling in his chest hair. 

 

There’s no decent explanation for  _ that,  _ no talking his way out. Because Dean would come back, too, wet washcloth in hand, looking just as guilty, and mom would glance between them in horror. 

 

They’re going to have to tell her, or keep their doors locked constantly, which Sam tells his brother when Dean returns.    
  


“You’re kidding, right.” He doesn’t even take it seriously, knee up on the bed as he wipes Sam down. 

 

“No, I’m - no I’m serious. She’s going to find out one way or another.” 

 

Dean shakes his head, folds the rag over, and wipes off his belly. Tosses it in the general direction of his laundry before he returns to the bed and stretches out next to Sam. 

 

“Yeah, but do we have to talk about this now?” He puts on that pout, that boyish  _ do I gotta? _ expression that actually got him out of a lot of things when he was younger. Even with dad, which Sam doesn’t want to think about. 

“I mean. We could talk about it when she catches us when you’ve got your dick in my ass but, yeah, sure, whatever you wanna do.” Sam has to smile because that makes Dean’s face fall flat with the knowledge that Sam is unfortunately very right. No matter what form it took, mom finding out isn’t going to be pretty. 

 

“What the fuck are we going to say to her? There’s no good way to frame this. Hey, so after you died, like over a decade later, we made some decisions, started fucking when Sam was 15. Nothing major, but y’know, I’d do anything for the kid so what’s one more thing right?” 

 

When he gets like this, Dean talks with his hands, so his palms are offered up to nothing while they stare at the ceiling.

 

“She’ll blame Dad,” Sam says quietly, tipping his head toward Dean, but he won't look at his brother because he doesn't know if what he said is a good or bad thing.

 

Dean is quiet while they both think about laying their sins at the feet of their dead father. Something about that isn't right with Sam; they chose this. It's a side effect of their fucked up way of living, yes, but he  _ chose  _ Dean and will continue to do so until the world comes literally crashing down around his head. This isn't dad's fault, it isn't something he'd forced them into--he was never that twisted. 

 

Never as twisted as they were, and Sam smiles. 

 

“And I always knew Dad...I don't know, I knew if Dad found out he'd blame me,” Dean says, soft. An odd sort of fear in his voice, not unchildlike, “‘Your job is to  _ protect  _ him, not….this.’”

 

He motions in the air at nothing, and Sam sighs heavily as he turns on his belly, buries his face in the space between Dean’s shoulder and his pillow. 

 

“You didn't corrupt me Dean,” he mutters, words muffled by his awkward position. They've gone  _ over and over  _ this already; Dean didn't use his “position of authority” as Sam's older brother to coerce him into this 20 year affair. 

 

Hell, Sam barely saw  _ Dad  _ as an authority figure, so he had even less respect for Dean’s forced “authority” over him. Not that he didn't listen, but Dean was his brother, and in Sam’s young mind, he didn't  _ have  _ to listen to Dean at all. Ever. 

 

At least not until it was convenient for him, or when they were fucking. Even when he was 15, Sam liked when Dean bossed him around between the sheets--but only there. Every other time, Dean got a fight.

 

“Yeah, but you know I'm right, don't you?” Dean turns his head to look at his little brother, brows drawn up in a sad sort of expression that he  _ gets _ when they talk about Dad. Sam drags his face from the warm confines he'd buried it in so he can look at his brother. 

 

Sam sighs, because he does know. Over the years, and especially when he was younger, he went over the scenarios in his head of Dad finding out he was fucking Dean. When he was a teenager, the idea scared him a little, but in his dream world he always met his father’s righteous rage with his chin ticked up, and a scowl on his face because he  _ loved Dean. More than you ever have.  _ He had a lot of dreams about standing up to Dad, on various topics. 

 

Before Dad died, those nights in the hospital he spent desperately searching for ways to save Dean, Sam thought of confessing, like giving his father his last rights. 

 

_ Your favorite son and I have been fucking for close to a decade,  _ Sam would hiss, sitting at John’s bedside.  _ He'd choose me over you any day. Even came to visit me at Stanford once, yknow? Between the two people who have treated him worst in this world he'd still always pick me.  _

 

Sam doesn't know how he feels about how vindictive he was when he was younger, but there's was a lot of complicated reasoning behind it. He's worked past it, blah blah. 

 

Right Sam wonders if it's that vindictiveness and hatred toward his father that made him fantasize about telling John, because when he thinks of telling mom? His insides knot up, unpleasant,  _ fearful. _

 

“Maybe we just...lead with the fact that no one’s to blame. Yknow?” He looks to Dean for his reaction. “We were just kids doin’ what we wanted, and hell, normal wasn't really in the books for us like, ever.” 

 

Dean presses his lips together, still a little red from their earlier activity and shakes his head. 

 

“And how do you think she'd frame that in her head? Gee, wouldn't my kids have a normal life if I weren't dead and their father didn't make their lives a quest for  _ his  _ revenge?” 

 

Sam is glad Dean doesn't do a voice, which he tends to do, and they let a silence stretch between them then, just looking at one another. 

 

“Guess it might just be easier to let her catch us,” says Sam, resigned, and done talking about this honestly. Thankfully Dean laughs, his head tipping to the side until his forehead rests against Sam’s.

 

“Can we call it a night now, Sammy?” He asks, smile wide in spite of the conversation.

  
“Yeah, alright.” 

**Author's Note:**

> come hang out with me on [tumblr](http://mwildsides.tumblr.com/) there too, talk to me abt wincest. i'm always down for prompts too tbh.


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